Brother Thalmor
by Norroen Dyrd
Summary: The two brothers have not seen each other since they were boys. One has grown up to be a Thalmor Justiciar, another - to be the Dragonborn.
1. Altmer berserker

The fight that had began in the temple of Talos spilled out into the streets, wild, savage, like something out of a confused, nightmarish dream. The frightened townsfolk hastened to take cover inside their houses or behind the protective walls of the Silver-Blood Inn; even the smelter workers stopped their ceaseless labour, straightening their weary backs and wiping sweat off their sooty faces – for their Orc overseer seemed to have forgotten all about them, more interested in watching the blood spurt, fountain-like, into the air, and heads roll off the stony ledges, than in worrying about the silver quota. The inhabitants of the keep, startled by the deafening clamour in the city below, crowded at the few narrow windows cut in the massive stone, with a great deal of shoving and elbowing and muffled cries of awe. The Thalmor soldiers were no exception; much as they strived to appear unperturbed by the commotion, curiosity finally got the better of them and, making the excitedly whispering kitchen servants step aside – with a few imperious, and rather painful, pushes in the chest – they assumed an advantageous strategic position and took to gaping at the sight, rare even for Markarth, all dignity abandoned. It wasn't long before they had to wheel round hurriedly, brought back to reality by the commanding voice of their superior.

'What do you think you are doing? Get back to your duties!'

'Sir, Justiciar Ondolemar, sir,' one of the soldier blurted out, standing on ceremony and looking rather like a boy who had been caught stealing sweetrolls from the pantry, 'There is a disturbance in the streets, sir. Humans attacking each other. I think you should see for yourself, sir'.

'_You_ think?' Ondolemar sneered, 'Pardon me if I am wrong, but it seems to me that I have been assigned by the Dominion to do the thinking here. And _I_ think that watching humans cut each others' throats is a waste of time. Their petty squabbles are no business of ours, as long as they do not concern our mission'.

'But sir!' the soldier protested, shifting away from the window tactfully so that the Justiciar could see for himself, 'It's… extraordinary!'

With a resigned sigh, Ondolemar condescended to take a look down – and raised his eyebrows in astonishment. The soldier hadn't been too accurate when he said that humans were attacking _each other_. In truth, there was a substantial number of humans – a whole detachment of guards, no fewer than twenty – attacking one. And that one, who stood towering over his adversaries, swarming round him like skeevers fighting over a slice of rotting meat, could or could not be a human; it was hard to tell, what with the distance that separated him from the onlookers, and the ceaseless flashing of limbs and weapons, and the fact that his face was concealed by a dwarven helmet. Ondolemar, for his part, assumed that it was an Orc, driven into the infamous berserker rage, such was the force with which the unknown warrior brought his jagged greatsword down on the guards' heads, cutting through their squirming mass like through butter. No amount of high-elven contempt for such primitive spectacles could stop Ondolemar from following the solitary fighter with his gaze, and the feeling the stirred within him as he watched him fling two guards into the water with one swing of his weapon was dangerously close to admiration.

After several minutes of breathless watching, the dumbfounded audience finally realized that all the attackers had been killed and heaped on top of each other in to form a large, morbid mound, and the victorious warrior was left standing alone, his head flung back, the expressionless face of his helmet looking up at the keep that towered in front of him. 'I wonder what the fool will bring upon himself now…' Ondolemar murmured to himself; as if in response to his words, the stranger staggered forward, apparently worn out by the wild battle and suffering from several grave wounds, and made his way towards the Jarl's palace.

The guards inside the keep, who had remained idle throughout the skirmish, hastened to intercept the warrior as he stumbled inside, flinging the metal doors open and keeping a grip on them for support, while all the others huddled together at the top of the stone staircase, watching, waiting.

'You are under arrest for crimes against Mar…' one of the guards began pompously, but the warrior shook his head. He stretched out his arm, strong and muscular, with bulging veins and deep, bleeding cuts, entreating the guards to stop and listen. Seeing them hesitate, he attempted to say something, but the clumsy helmet turned his voice into an incoherent mumble – so he let go of the door with his other hand and pulled the helmet off, revealing his face. Ondolemar, who was still watching him closely, his expression deliberately indifferent, stepped back with a small cry of shock and disgust. The savage warrior, who had single-handedly defeated twenty guards, relying solely on the strength of his arms, was neither a human nor an Orc – but an Altmer. Passing by the silently frowning guard, he started to move slowly, painfully, up the stairs, never ceasing to look at those who had gathered to gape at him on the upper level, his amber-coloured eyes streaming with liquid desperation.

'Please!' he called out hoarsely as he got to the stairs' middle, 'I can take no more of this! The Jarl… the Jarl needs to know! There is a conspiracy… the Silver-Bloods… Nepos… guard ambush…'

He never got the chance to finish his urgent message – for his eyes met Ondolemar's. He froze, stuck by some sudden revelation, taking in every smallest feature of the uncomprehending Justiciar's face; the moment was lost. The guard who had tried to detain him raced up the steps and laid his hand firmly on his shoulder, 'You are coming to Cidhna Mine'.


	2. So much planning

_**Extract from the private journal of Baldr the Dovahkiin (which he keeps because that's a thing every self-respecting adventurer should do).**_

His face has been burned into my mind like a brand mark. It has haunted me throughout the nightmare of my escape from the mines, and it is still there, floating persistently before my inner sight when I close my eyes. It is him, there can be no doubt. _My brother!_ By Talos, it feels so strange putting these words on paper; it has been so long since I last dwelled on our common memories. After all these years… he hasn't changed one bit. Well, I grant he has become a great deal taller, with his Thalmor robes fitting him perfectly – unlike in those bygone days when he used to stand in front of the mirror, wrapped in Father's clothes, which were several sizes too big for him, and pretend he was a real, grown-up Thalmor, much to my delight. And, of course, the few pathetic little chin hairs that he was coveting with such pride at the time we parted our ways, which was when I was still a child and he was on the verge of manhood, have grown somewhat in size and number. But apart from that, he is still the same old Lemmie. Not quite the same old Lemmie, though – and I think I'd better find out the exact extent of this _not quite_.

_**Extract from the private journal of Justiciar Ondolemar (which he keeps because he deems himself one of the few persons in the world worth keeping – and reading – a record of).**_

The abominable creature is haunting me. It is more than disturbing, the way he shadows me around the keep, racing up in front of me when I try to avoid him and peering insolently into my face. Once or twice, he has attempted to start a conversation, presumably under the pretext that we are both Altmer and people of one race should be friendly towards each other. What he seems to fail to understand is that by reducing himself to the standards of behaviour of a lowly Nord he has cut off all ties with the properly, _superiorly _bred mer such as myself. I must admit, the little incident with the guards was quite impressive, especially for one of our kin, who are not naturally disposed towards melee combat. But I digress.

When – by sheer accident, of course – I chanced to fall into the trap of his small-talk, he bombarded me with questions about my origin. 'You are not from Markarth, I take it?', he asked me, with the air of most innocent curiosity. When, losing my temper a little at his irritating persistence, I told him all that I think about this craggy wretch of a city, he proceeded to utterly take me aback with the following discourse, accompanied by a repulsively cheerful grin and a sly wink:

'_Ah, yes, you must have been born in the Summerset Isle, then. Perhaps in one of those magnificent villas – with a lush green garden, overgrown just enough to do a bit of exploring as a child, and a terrace coming down to the very sea shore… A perfect place to spend one's early years… playing with a younger sibling, perhaps? Nothing like a good game of hide-and-seek to while away the lazy summer afternoons when all the grown-ups are gone… but it can be dangerous, too. Imagine a small boy hiding from his elder brother among the bushes on top of a steep cliff looking out into the sea. He thinks himself concealed completely, and giggles at picturing the other child's vain attempts to find him. But then his foot slips, he loses balance, and tumbles down into the water! He can swim a little, because his brother has taught him how, but the shock of his fall, and the pain – he has twisted his ankle, you see – make all the knowledge of moving his limbs in the right way evaporate from his poor little head, and all that he can do is struggle desperately to keep on the surface and bawl out his brother's name till his voice grows hoarse like the cry of a seagull. When the second boy finally comes to the rescue, it is almost too late. He dives in, horrified, and catches the choking, half-drowned little mite into his arms and waddles ashore just as a huge wave is about to sweep down over their heads… When they finally make it to dry land, the elder boy gives his brother a good spanking and they take a solemn oath never to breathe a word to the grown-ups…'_

For a while, I was left speechless. His bizarre narrative matched, with uncanny accuracy, one of my many boyhood misadventures. I asked myself, just as I ask now – how could he have known? My little brother and I had indeed sworn to each other not to tell anyone – and as far as I know, we both kept true to our word. Was it the fabled insight of a madman – for he clearly is one, forsaking all his kin holds true for the false ideals of the inferior species? Or perhaps, just a coincidence, a fictional tale that matched exactly what I myself had once experienced? I felt obliged to question him; but I got no chance to do so, for he was called away by the Housecarl; apparently, the Jarl needed some brute muscle power to eliminate a Forsworn settlement.

_** A hastily scribbled plan stuck between the pages of Baldr's quest agenda:**_

_See if he recognizes me_ – check. He doesn't. No wonder – I wouldn't have recognized myself if I had had to compare the image of the small, fragile elven boy he must remember me as and my present muscular, broad-shouldered, unshaven self. That's what you get when you embrace Nord customs.

_Probe the soil with a childhood tale_ – check. Judging from how ghastly pallid he turned when I told him about our hide-and-seek game, my little experiment has set the cogs of his mind working. He must be wondering what I am playing at.

_Now, to reveal myself!_ Preferably, in as dramatic a way as possible. I haven't studied at the Bards' College for nothing! Perhaps I should mystify him further? More hints, more questions, more stories of what we did together as boys? Get him all emotional (if that's possible, of course) – and then fling myself on his neck with a customary 'Ondolemar, I am your brother!' This is going to be so thrilling! I wish I had more time… All those other quests I have to do… Delphine must be steaming with impatience…


	3. What soberness conceals

The party was boring. Frightfully so. Of course, some pleasure could be taken in strolling casually across the room, fingers toying with a wine goblet, and unsettling those boot-licking humans with vague but threatening hints on the Dominion's plans for Tamriel - but Ondolemar soon got fed up with it and settled in a corner, stretching himself languidly and surveying the other guests with weary contempt. A little imp at the back of his mind pointed mischievously at one of the humans, who seemed to have driven himself into a state when he could no longer take in anything that was going on around him, except that there had to be more wine to be drunk, and suggested that Ondolemar do the same. He smirked to himself. Get drunk - like a Nord? The idea was preposterous, but he was so very, very _bored.._.

'Malborn,' he called out, suppressing a yawn, 'What is the strongest brew you are serving?'

The liquid was disgusting; he could not bring himself to start on the second bottle.

'Know when to stop, eh?' said a friendly voice behind him, 'Good for you. I didn't know when to stop, so I ended up in Markarth'.

_'You again?'_ Ondolemar had turned his head to find himself one again face to face with the savage Altmer, who was standing by his side, looking somewhat sheepish in a full set of party attire, which was bursting a little at the seams. 'By what right are you here?'

'By the right of having a magic little slip of paper called an invitation,' was the carefree reply, 'Issued to the name of Baldr Nordheart, your friendly neighbourhood adventurer! Though believe me, I'd much rather be stretching my legs in front of a blazing hearth in a Nord mead hall than mingling with a bunch of Thalmor...'

Ondolemar wanted to cut him short, but a sudden wave of nausea prevented him from doing so. He hadn't stopped when he should have, after all.

In the meanwhile, the obstinately talkative stranger went on, 'Which reminds me, I have been thinking lately... I have seen the Thalmor commit all sorts of atrocities, completely unmoved, their faces and hearts cold and hard as stone...'

Once again Ondolemar tried to speak but could not, the sound of his voice drowned out by the shrill ringing in his ears.

'...So I couldn't but wonder: do you people have any feelings at all? Is the flame of Mara lit in your souls, or has it been extinguished irrevocably by arrogance and cruelty and hatred? You, for instance - is there anyone in this world you care for? Anyone close... A woman? A family member? Parent, sister... _brother?'_

_'Stop it!' _Ondolemar breathed, the last colour draining from his face, 'I don't know what you are trying to get out of me, but I indeed used to have a brother - he died when he was a boy, and I will tolerate no other mention of him!'

Most of his vehement speech was slurred, but the stranger understood. He drew up a chair and settled close to Ondolemar, giving him a reassuring pat on the back. 'You must have kept it bottled up for a long time, if you pardon the metaphor,' he said softly, 'Why don't you tell me all there is to tell?'

Ondolemar closed his eyes to keep the room from spinning round and round him; in his utmost heart, he detested the stranger for prying so shamelessly into his private world and detested himself for succumbing to the wild temptation of fighting boredom with drink, but it was already too late, and he was too sick to care. It had been so long that he had lived with a thorn lodged into his heart - perhaps if he revealed his feelings, he would finally be rid of the nuisance, and able to breathe freely and devote himself entirely to serving the Dominion...

'As Auri-El is my witness, I still miss him...' he whispered, 'After so many years, there are times when I find myself wishing he were here... Longing... To see his face - smiling, looking up at me trustfully... To hear his voice, his ringing laughter... Even to be pelted with those annoying questions of his about right and wrong again... He never could understand the concept of elven supremacy. 'What makes us better than others?' he would ask me, and I would try to explain, but he was never satisfied...'

His voice trailed off into an incoherent mumble. He who called himself Baldr smiled and pressed Ondolemar's fingers in his; he half-expected him to jerk his hand back, but the Thalmor, completely dazed by strong spirits and an overflow of emotion that had broken through the dam he had so painstakingly constructed in his soul over the years, did not feel or see him. He was far away, many miles and years away, flying a colourful paper kite shaped like a ship with fluttering sails of scarlet and gold, together with a small boy, who was running at his side, laughing with wild joy, arms thrown wide apart, the sun shining in his flyaway hair...

The vision was shattered by the sudden realization of what had become of him. The thought had always been there, but now it at long last came forward from the back of his mind, bursting through the iridescent bubble of his childhood reminiscence. 'I am drunk,' he said to himself, his whole body clutched by the claws of shame, 'How could I have let it happen?'

With a trembling, unsteady hand Ondolemar - after several unsuccessful tried - cast a healing spell on himself. His head was still swimming, and the surroundings still seemed to drift away from him every now and again, but at least he regained some control over his mind and tongue.

'As soon as I get the chance', he hissed, pinning Baldr to the floor with a burning glare, 'I will have you arrested!'

Baldr was just about to answer back when Malborn gave a loud, very meaningful cough from behind the counter. The savage Altmer trotted off obediently, and Ondolemar lost sight of him for the rest of the miserable party, which he spent trying to cleanse himself from the foul human beverage, in various ways. Sometimes, visions of his brother, stirred by his recent moment of softness, would come knocking at his mind's door, but this time he kept it locked, determined to maintain the little dignity he had left after the ridiculous incident with the bottle. The thorn was still there, still aching, but as long as he was sober, Ondolemar would never admit its existence.


	4. Mind made up

It was such blissful relief to take a brief rest in between rounds of world-saving, in a serenely sleepy village, surrounded by familiar faces. Whistling contentedly to himself, Baldr made his way to the sawmill. As usual, Frodnar was the first to see him coming. The boy's trust had been a hard thing to gain - he remembered him backing away in fright, like a little beast of the wilds, when he saw his adored Uncle Ralof return to Riverwood in the company of High Elf, of all people - but now he and his dog were included in the long list of Baldr's best friends forever. The excited shriek 'Baldr is back! Baldr is back!' made the adults look up from their chores and hurry to greet the smiling, travel-worn elf, who was, as usual, clad in a full set of heavy armour and carrying an ebony sword at his side.

'So good to see you again!' Faendal cried, after Baldr relaxed his hearty embrace a little.

'Good to see you, friend! How's Camilla?'

'Oh, she's fine... I imagine she'll be at Lucan's now - arguing, as usual. He won't let her help him around the store, you know, now that, well...' Faendal coughed and blushed a little, 'But she says it's all nonsense, because it hasn't even been two months yet...'

'Now, now, Faendal,' said Gerdur in a mockingly scolding tone, coming up to them, 'You can discuss your future fatherhood later. What matters now is Baldr's epic quest - right, Baldr?'

'Right,' he echoed, somewhat reluctantly, since taking his mind off his epic quest was kind of one of the things he intended to do in Riverwood, 'I dropped by here on my way to Whiterun, actually. As my friend Irileth would have put it, we are catching ourselves a dragon'.

'Oh, yes,' Gerdur said interestedly, 'We heard about that treaty you had to make to have your way with Jarl Balgruuf. Been the talk of the whole hold for days'.

Baldr shuddered, 'That was _horrible._ I never suspected diplomacy could be so darn hard. I tried my best, by the gods I did, and yet somehow we ended up stuffing Riften even deeper into Maven Black Briar's pocket and giving Markarth away to those corrupt, conniving Silver-Bloods...'

'Look on the bright side,' Gerdur grinned cheerfully, 'At least, now that the Stormcloaks have Markarth again, they will give those Thalmor agents a proper kick in the proper place'.

Baldr's face fell. 'Yes... You are right...' he said dully, his expression little short of thunderstruck, 'A proper kick in the proper place... Gerdur,' he added unexpectedly, a great deal louder and livelier, 'You care for Ralof, don't you? And he cares for you, right? So, if he was in a tight scrape, would you help him out?'

She snorted, 'What kind of question is that? Of course I would! He is my brother, for Shor's sake!'

'And supposing,' Baldr went on with feverish urgency, 'Supposing you cared about Ralof, and Ralof cared about you - or so it would seem judging from a fit of drunken frankness - _but, _at the same time, he was a stuck-up freak intent on rooting out everything you hold sacred... Would you help him out _then?'_

Gerdur frowned, 'That's kind of hard to imagine... But I know of an old Nord saying: there is honour in being loyal to someone for something, but there is also honour in being loyal to someone _despite _something'.

Baldr grabbed her abruptly by the hand and gave it a vigorous shake, 'Your lips to the gods' ears!' And without further ado, he raced away from his startled little circle of friends.

Before leaving Riverwood, he paused on the bridge and called out, putting his hands to the sides of his mouth to be heard over the noise of the mill, 'Before I run off: will one of you guys do me a favour and send word to Whiterun that they will have to put off the dragon-catching for a while? I am catching a carriage for Markarth!'


	5. Finally, the reunion

The rays of light were soft and their touch was soothing and gently cool, putting out the flames of pain that had been devouring him. Ondolemar opened his eyes. He was lying on something hard and wooden that kept rocking from one side to another beneath him, and overhead there was nothing but the great plane of the sky, with stars strewn across its surface like diamond dust; he could hear a shrill, monotonous creaking sound, and smell horses.

'Hello there,' he started; the voice was all too familiar, 'Yet again, we meet when you are not at all in a state befitting a Thalmor. But this time, it's something a bit more dramatic than drinking yourself into a stupor. Do you remember anything about what happened? Anything at all?'

He remembered. Stormcloak troops entering Markarth. Songs of victory. Wild faces in the torchlight. Soldiers in the keep, weapons unsheathed, voices mocking.

'_We were told to make sure you leave the hold quietly. But we all know you won't, right, elf?'_

The fight right there, on the steps of the keep. Lightning bursting from his fingertips. Humans falling to their knees before him - and rising again. And then - sharp pain between his shoulderblades. Being dragged, face down, across the stone floor. Voices again, triumphant, leering.

_'Now you know what it felt like for us, elf. You thought we were but dogs, and your kind were our masters. Well, it seems the dogs are at your throat now. Farewell, elf. May our ancestors rise up and tear you to pieces'._

Foorsteps fading away down the hall. The metallic clank of the door closing. Darkness. Pain. Oblivion.

'They wounded you pretty bad, you know. You were almost dead when I found you. I've patched you up a little, but Danica will do a better job than me. A week at the temple will whip you back to shape. Of course, you will be hearing Heimskr all the time - the fellow has a rather penetrating voice - but it will give you some food for thought on the subject of what a bad boy you've been'.

_'Who are you?' _Ondolemar groaned, 'Why do you keep plaguing me?'

'_Plaguing? _Excuse me, I just saved your sorry Thalmor hide! I have generously overlooked the fact that your kind have made the world likely to give old Alduin a heartburn if he ever eats it - all because some ten years ago you taught me how to fly a kite! I wouldn't call it _plaguing_ - in my vocabulary, it's helping your brother out, though he hardly deserves it!'

Ondolemar shifted himself into a sitting position, as far as his wound allowed him, and attempted to conjure up a hovering orb of light, to take what would be the first proper look at Baldr's face since the incident with the twenty Markarth guards - he had always been too preoccupied with being appalled at Baldr's general appearance to take notice of his facial features.

'It can't be...' he muttered to himself, 'We gave him up for dead...'

'Well,' Baldr retorted, sounding offended, 'Just because a kid runs away from home and you don't have enough brains to find him doesn't mean he's dead! I am pretty much alive - more alive than you, in many respects!'

_'Prove it,'_ Ondolemar breathed faintly, 'Prove that you are Aurelion'.

'Fine,' Baldr's voice in the dark was tinted with hidden laughter, 'I have plenty more childhood trivia known only to the two of us that I can pile up on you. Like 'chin-chinny' - you know, that song I teased you with when you started growing a goatee. Or 'Watch out, the Daedroth is a-lurking' - that's what you used to say when you tickled my toes to wake me up in the morning. Or how you made a drawing of your grown-up self in a Thalmor robe, escorting a prisoner to be interrogated, and I tore the picture in two because I wanted the prisoner to be set free - and you got mad at me and we fought and I broke your nose. Or those delightful afternoons when Father would leave on whatever gruesome business I was considered too small to know about, and you were left in charge, and I would get into all sorts of mischief just to make you lose your temper; once I poured a self-brewed potion over your head. There was a terrible scandal when the truth got out, and I was grounded for a fortnight, but you were the first to forgive me, small and stupid as I was, though your hair never did grow back again... Another reason for you to grow up as soon as possible and be able to wear a hooded Thalmor robe, we decided... So, you see, you had your good moments, after all, even if you are a born Thalmor - remember how I would wake up in the small hours because of my old nightmare of seeing our mother after she had drowned herself, and I would crawl into your bed and cling on to you for comfort, and you would tell me stories... And then there was that time when I was awfully ill, and you would never leave my bedside, and make shadow plays for me by the light of a candle... I could go on and on forever - and by the way, it's not Aurelion any longer. I abandoned my name after I ran away from home. Now I call myself Baldr - after that human child who was killed by the interrogators the night I fled... We had become real friends, you see, me and that boy in the ragged robes. I flew into a real rage when I heard the news, and flung myself at Father, and he shook me off and wanted to use a shock spell on me for punishment, but you shielded me, and...'

'Enough!' Ondolemar exclaimed chokingly; another one of his constant tries to cast Magelight had finally proved successful, and he leaned forward, taking in Baldr's face as intently as Baldr had once been taking in his. When, at long last, he tore his gaze away, there was a suspiciously thin film glistening in his eyes.

'Why?' he asked, shaking his head in stunned disbelief, 'Why this roundabout approach?'

'Because,' Baldr explained with an air of utmost importance, 'It is infinitely more interesting. We long-lost relatives have to take our time before revealing ourselves. Now, Lemmie, give me a big brotherly hug, for Talos's sake! Yes, incidentally, I worship Talos. Funny, isn't it?'

Just like when he was drunk, the voice of reason kept nagging at Ondolemar's mind, whispering that what he was doing was wrong, shameful, improper, but this time he had not intention whatsoever to listen to it. They unlocked their embrace only when the carriage reached the gates of Whiterun.


	6. An impossibly possible ending

The sea was ablaze with sunlight. The birds were circling over the docks, with shrill, hungry cries. The bell was tolling monotonously. The sailors were calling out to each other, hauling large sacks on board a cargo ship. Another busy afternoon in Solitude.

They walked down the wooden steps to the pier one after the other - Baldr, festively solemn and desperately struggling with weepiness, Ondolemar, cloaked in a hooded back mage's robe and icy silence, Aventus, cheerful and excited by the new experience of seeing someone off, and Lydia, calm, obliging and helpful as always, though with noticeable pink rims round her eyes - the whole household, except for Aela, who had been unable to come because of being assigned to clear out an allegedly haunted barrow, though Baldr strongly suspected that this was just an excuse, as she made no secret of disliking her brother-in-law, who returned her feelings tenfold, despite all of Baldr's attempts to make peace between the two of them.

'Uncle Lemmie, Uncle Lemmie, will you write to us?' Aventus sang, hopping down two steps at a time.

'I suppose,' Ondolemar replied curtly, through gritted teeth; he winced in disgust every time the boy addressed him as 'Uncle Lemmie', it being his firm belief that the terrible sin of his brother adopting a human gave the insufferable little brat no right to treat him, Ondolemar, as a relative.

'I want to know all about Summerset Isle!' Aventus went on eagerly, 'Even about the Thalmor! Jarl Ulfric hates the Thalmor, and Jarl Ulfric sent me to Honourhall, so this must mean...'

Ondolemar cut his syllogism short with an irritated 'I won't be writing to _you,_ that much is certain'.

Aventus pouted; Lydia, his caregiver, caught up with him and got hold of his hand, her grip reassuringly firm. Like Baldr, she wished the relationship within the family to be even and peaceful, but that had been rather hard to achieve ever since her Thane turned up on Breezehome's doorstep accompanied by his brother, who openly detested everything about the way they lived their lives - especially after the initial rosiness of having found his presumably long-dead little brother dispelled a little.

At length, they reached the place where the ship bound for Summerset Isle lay at anchor; throughout his convalescence and further stay at Baldr's, he had been doing his utmost to obtain a board passage for home, now that his mission in Skyrim had failed so dismally - and at long last, his desire was fulfilled.

They stood in a semi-circle next to the ship's gangway, all of them, even Aventus, awkwardly silent. Ondolemar folded his arms on his chest, his lips twitching in a ghostly likeness of a smile. It had been the most insane, the most shameful, and, arguably, the happiest time of his life. There had been family dinners, noisy and confused, during which he would learn one appalling detail of his brother's private life after another - like him wearing an amulet of Talos on his person at all times, or his regular habit of performing all sorts of menial tasks, or_ quests_, as he called them, for humans, or him being the one responsible for the disastrous jailbreak at Northwatch Keep, or his wife, as if belonging to the Nord race was not a horror in itself, being a werewolf... There had been journeys to the wilderness which Baldr had insisted upon because they were supposed to be good for Ondolemar's health - during these journeys, they had done a wide variety of stupid, childish, pointless things, including butterfly-chasing, and fishing at the break of dawn, and taking baths in geysers, and sliding down a snowy mountainside on a shield. There had been endless debates between the two brothers, late at night, by the campfire, with the northern lights billowing, silk-like, overhead - debates on faith, and elven supremacy, and the eternal question of good and evil, which would go round and round in a circle till the two would grow weary and agree to disagree. There had been dungeon-delving, and dragon-slaying, and cooking contests, and countless household chores which Baldr miraculously managed to turn into entertainment by singing song after ridiculous song. There had been long evenings of silent gazing at the flames, side by side, when for a brief moment Ondolemar could almost imagine they were boys again. He was still at a loss how he could have allowed all that to be done to him. But no longer - the inebriated daze was over; his head clear, his mind returning to reality, Ondolemar was ready to go back to where he truly belonged.

The ship was about to cast off. Ondolemar allowed Baldr to draw him close to his broad, warm chest, and throw his arm affectionately across his back; when he let go, Ondolemar deigned to give a brief nod to the others and went up the gangway, his whole figure an image of frozen dignity.

'I miss you already!' Baldr called out, waving his hand frantically. Aventus leapt up and down. Lydia turned away to hide tears - if someone inquisitive were to dissect her honest Nord heart, they would find there an unexpectedly strong influence of the Aldmeri Dominion, represented by one particular agent...

Ondolemar watched the outline of Solitude draw further and further away with what he believed to be satisfaction. True, he had been reunited with his precious little brother - but during the years of separation, the gap between them had grown almost too deep to be bridged. A Talos worshipper and Stormcloak sympathizer, consorting with ever so many lowly people... and creatures. Perhaps he would have been better off with that aching wound in his heart, inflicted by the thought that his brother was dead... Ondolemar shook his head. Who was he fooling? That day when a Stormcloak soldier stabbed him in the back, perhaps he did kill a Thalmor Justiciar...

The crew, with a many a curse and look of disbelief, gaped at the black-robed passenger throw himself overboard and swim ashore. The little company on the pier, too, gaped at him approach, their eyes round with astonishment, their hands clapped to their mouths. Baldr helped him climb onto the slippery boards, grinning from ear to ear, 'You have surprised me, Lemmie. Maybe some good will come of you after all'.

'I intend to surprise you further,' said Ondolemar. And just as he was, breathless, dripping with water, he cupped his hands around Lydia's face and gave her a long kiss on the lips. He had been tempted to do it for quite some time. Of course, the idea of being irresistibly attracted to a Nord woman horrified him - but like brother, like brother.


End file.
